


Keep Your Overflowing Adoration Contained

by under_a_linden_tree



Series: A life much grander than he dared imagine [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Dinner, First Dates, Fluff, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), ace friendly, going on a first date after 6000 years as you do, oh look a rude waiter, we are making progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:28:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23253220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree/pseuds/under_a_linden_tree
Summary: After the Apocalypse hasn't happened, Crowley and Aziraphale  decide to go on a proper first date. It's yet another step towards a shared life of their own.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: A life much grander than he dared imagine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671922
Comments: 18
Kudos: 81
Collections: Soft Reading Material





	Keep Your Overflowing Adoration Contained

**Author's Note:**

> A massive thank you to my beta readers, akinmytua and D20Owlbear. And another one to the people who left their lovely comments on the last fic, otherwise this one wouldn't have been written.

The traffic is particularly easy-going this evening, almost peculiarly so. Crowley, for one, does _not_ approve of that. Traffic’s supposed to be trouble, a nuisance that will make micro-aggressions take over and keep people stuck in their cars, which is precisely what Crowley wants to be right now. Anything that will keep him inside the Bentley a minute longer is welcome. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Aziraphale—he very much wants this date to work out—but a few more moments to collect himself would be a _real_ gift.

 _It’s all right, it’s all right_.

Crowley re-adjusts his tie; it wouldn’t do to turn up with a crooked knot, now would it?

After pages and pages of Yelp reviews (switching back and forth between _Fine Dining_ and _Romantic Restaurants_ , which was a very nerve wrecking thing to do, thank you very much), he finally settled on a neat Italian restaurant, good silver cutlery and everything, and made a reservation. The gesture matters more that way, doesn’t it? A snotty maître d' answered on the third ring and after a little bit of convincing, he gave Crowley a secluded table with a good view. A good view’s important, you see, in case the conversation runs into a dead end—you can stare off into the middle distance, or hope that something interesting happens, a detail you can comment on, anything really.

Upon further reconsideration, Crowley loosens his tie again. Yes, it feels much more comfortable that way, less constricting. He checks his watch; quarter past seven. Time to pick up the angel.

 _Well, Crowley-_ he tells himself - _you can’t fuck this up, can you?_ and gets out of the car.

Aziraphale’s door flings open before Crowley can even think to knock[1].

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale says and quickly locks up behind him. “You’re perfectly on time.”

“Uh- yeah. Hi. Hop in, angel.”

 _Very suave, Crowley, good job_.

Who could blame his brain for short-circuiting? Aziraphale’s true to his word (of course he is, he’s an angel, for Heaven’s sake), dressed up even more nicely than usual. Crowley doesn’t think he has seen this waistcoat on him before, a soft ivory fabric that fits snugly around his waist, hugging his soft middle. It rides up just a little now that he sits down in the passenger seat.

(All right, perhaps Crowley wants to be in that waistcoat’s place, hold on tight to the angel and never let go.)

Aziraphale rolls his shoulders and settles against the backrest. A slight quirk of his lips betrays his excitement. “I must say, I am very curious where you are planning to take me. There surely can’t be many places in London that I haven’t tried out yet.”

Crowley pipes up at that. “Did I say I’d take you somewhere new?”

For a moment, Aziraphale’s face falls and Crowley realises that he sounded rather harsh. It’s the nerves, they make him jittery. Nevertheless, Aziraphale’s expression softens before he can cut in.

“No, no you didn’t, I’m sorry,” the angel says. “I didn’t mean to critique your plans. I’m sure you have found a rather lovely place.”

Crowley opts for a non-committal hum.

“Oh, I forgot, you don’t do lovely.” Aziraphale’s hand hovers between them for a moment, then he pulls it back and clasps his palms together. “After all, you’re a very frightening demon.”

“Yep, very spooky, that’s me,” Crowley agrees as he barely avoids crashing into a pedestrian.

* * *

The restaurant is thirty minutes away, which translates to about ten minutes when Crowley’s driving. They chat casually, about this and that, until Crowley finds a free space on the curb.

“It’s this one,” he points out.

Aziraphale brightens. “That looks absolutely marvellous, Crowley.” He turns and offers him a charming smile. “Shall we?”

Crowley follows him onto the pavement, where the angel is still staring at the quaint facade with wide eyes. Multicoloured awnings shade them from the low-reaching sun and rich flowers frame the entrance. It’s quite a sight, barely walking the line between dainty and kitschy. Not that Crowley cares much about that. He cares about curls tinted golden by the setting sun and parted lips.

“You look good, angel,” he says, just because he can.

Immediately, the architecture is forgotten about. Instead, Aziraphale’s attention shifts back to Crowley, his eyes bright and soft, like the compliment means the world to him. Then his smile changes again, turns into a teasing smirk.

“Well, I was hoping to look a little better than merely _good_.”

Of course he does, he always does, but it’s not yet time to say such things, soft things, vulnerable things even. The time will come, not too far in the future, when there’s comfort and joy and serenity, when things that have gone unsaid can finally be spoken.

For now, “After you” will have to be enough.

A waiter welcomes them to the establishment, fake-smile plastered across his lips. His voice drips with irritation and Crowley can almost taste the disdain radiating off him. He makes a mental note to send mild annoyances the waiter’s way as soon as this date is over.

There’s a discussion. Their table is still occupied as it seems, ( _oh, sorry_ ) so a different solution has to be found ( _how very inconvenient_ ) and that of course entails a far smaller corner table ( _you gotta take what you get...sir_ ) with a terrible view of the street.

_Great start._

“Well,” Aziraphale says over the menu, after the wine has been ordered and served. “At least it’s cosy. To a lovely evening.”

He raises his glass and Crowley is momentarily distracted by the glint in his eyes. They’re deep as the sea, sparkling like foam against the shore. Crowley slowly comes to realise that this might be something he will see more often in the future, not just in fading memories.

“To a– yeah.”

The wine is good, it’s warm and rich in Crowley’s mouth. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow approvingly, too.

“Have you decided yet?” the angel asks. “You must have at least a small bite, if you want this to be a proper dinner.”

So Crowley glances down at his own menu. There’s a lot of specialty dishes, nothing like the easy hole-in-the-wall pizzas, chicken this and frutti di mare that. It’s a bit much, to be frank.

“Think I’ll take the… spaghetti alla napoletana.”

“Pasta is meant to be a starter, Crowley,” Aziraphale chides and yet he doesn’t object when Crowley orders the very thing a minute later.

The waiter, however, scoffs at him and his choice.

“There’s so many lovely things one can do now,” Aziraphale begins.

His hands are folded neatly over the stem of his wine glass, a certain sign of a deeper intent behind the idea. Crowley doesn’t like where this might be going. If this will be yet another long-winded discussion on a metaphorical level, they won’t be getting anywhere.

“I suppose there is,” he says, cautiously.

Aziraphale smiles. “There’s always the theatre, for instance. I would be rather in the mood for a comedy these days.” He pauses for a moment, an expectant look on his face. Then his smile fades as he continues. “The opera is likewise an excellent pastime—of course it’s not to everyone’s liking. There’s... concerts...trips to the beach...hiking.”

“Lots of things, really.”

“I want to do them with you, in case that wasn’t clear,” Aziraphale says quickly and lets go of his glass. “I am tired of misunderstandings, aren’t you too, dear?”

His voice is light but a fretful anxiety lays in his gaze and Crowley understands that. He is hoping to say the right thing at the right time for once, too. So Crowley clears his throat, his turn to take a step.

“Glad to hear that.”

The anxiety disappears from Aziraphale’s face; instead another smile spreads across his lips, smaller than all the other ones before, but far more genuine. It lets his eyes sparkle, reddens his cheeks with joy.

“Listen, Aziraphale, that’s what I–”

“Your pasta alla napoletana and chicken cacciatore,” the waiter interrupts. “Can you make some space on the table?”

Crowley glares at the waiter but he doesn’t seem to mind. He stands there, all nonchalant, and waits for them to clear their own table of their glasses before he places their plates precariously close to the edge.

“Good service,” Crowley says, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

“It _is_ rather terrible, isn’t it? One would think that a waiter at such a restaurant would have a certain level of decency, but that seems a hopeless case.”

Perhaps it’s the slight roll of his eyes that endears him so much to Crowley at this very moment. Perhaps it’s not. Crowley, however, can barely keep his feelings to himself, they threaten to burst from him, a lovelorn grin or a longing stare, maybe even a touch. But no, this will wait.

“Something might happen to him. Scratch on his car, maybe. Or losing his keys in the gutter.”

Aziraphale bites his lip in an effort to keep his grin to himself, although it’s clearly just for show. “Perhaps he will tip a glass over. It would be a pity if he stained his shirt.”

* * *

When the waiter passes their table the next time, his white shirt is indeed stained with blotches of red wine. Crowley grins at this miracle, courtesy of Aziraphale.

The angel himself is occupied with his dinner, chicken and vegetables in tomato sauce. He gently rolls a mushroom to the edge of his plate.

“Try this,” he says.

So Crowley does. It tastes good enough. He offers part of his pasta in turn.

* * *

When dinner has been eaten and more easy conversation has been had, Crowley thinks that the evening could hardly get better. Neither of them have thrown certain terms or certain words around and yet, it seems like an agreement has passed between them; _this is fine_ , co-signed by both of them.

Crowley’s hand is laying on to the table when -all of a sudden- a soft palm rests on his. He looks up at Aziraphale, who seems entirely at peace with himself and the world.

“So… is this the going out you imagined?” he asks.

Crowley nods and shifts his hand, their palms now pressed against each other. “‘Course it is, angel. You’re here with me, that’s all that matters.”

Aziraphale lights up at that and it’s different from the way things were before. He doesn’t look away. His smile is gorgeous and Crowley can’t help but mirror it.

“Will you take me home, then?” Aziraphale asks.

He brushes his thumb over Crowley’s palm tenderly. The gesture means the world to him, that little bit of reaching out, of choosing to be close. It’s soft and tender, something that shouldn’t be to a demon’s liking but- well, screw that, Crowley isn’t just any kind of demon, not anymore. He can enjoy tender things, if he likes.

“Yeah. I’ll drive you,” he says.

He keeps the _wherever you want to go_ to himself.

The drive passes in silence, but it is comfortable between them. Crowley’s mind does its best to fill it nonetheless, in an ever-remaining call of _It matters, it matters, it matters_.

And it does. To both of them.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Aziraphale has been pacing around the bookshop for the past thirty minutes, mentally debating his choice in cologne. It struck him that a special occasion might call for a special cologne, but by this time it had already been too late to change his mind, strictly speaking. Back


End file.
